


My Dear Watson

by curiousness1443



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1226761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiousness1443/pseuds/curiousness1443
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Sherlock's future changed drastically when Joan Watson stepped into his life at the age of 7, becoming fast friends with her and her ability to weaken the effects of his disorder, whatever that may be. Now they're older and starting college and sharing an apartment with another friend who's not always present. The new proximity is now challenging the terms of their friendship...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Due to the busyness of my work/ school schedule and some medical problems, I may not be able to post regularly but I'm hoping I can get this story going on the right track again. I'll be posting the chapters I have so far on a weekly basis.  
> Enjoy!  
> **This story will be told in the POVs of Sherlock and Joan respectively.**

Joan stood in the living room of her new apartment with her hands on her hips and a smile threatening to surface. She kept watch on the doorway, amused at what she knew would soon be coming down the hall. The move hadn’t been easy with no help from her parents on account of moral protest and the Holmes’ general refusal to lift a hand. Sebastian had scoffed at the thought of asking his parents as well and just suggested they get on with doing it alone.   
“Sherlock! Hold up your end!” and agitated cry sounded from the stairwell just down the hall. The red head of Sebastian appeared soon after his protest, struggling under his end of their futon.   
Joan smiled and cheered, “Heave, boy, you’re almost here!” She was happy to have finished setting up the rest of the furniture while they’d picked up the exact object that was now lumbering its way to her. “I’ve got the spot all picked out; all you have to do is set it down.”   
“Easy for you to say, Joan,” grunted her surly roommate, switching his hold to make it easier for the couch to fit through the door. “You don’t have him ‘helping’ you.” He bobbed his head towards the opposite end of the futon and gave his end a pull through the door.   
“If you’d have listened to me downstairs, both of our burdens would be lighter.” Sherlock stumbled through the door after an effective shove, his end slamming against the ground. He shook the dark, curly locks from his eyes ineffectively and ended up pushing them to the right in an attempt to clear his vision. “It’s here. Is my part done now?” Sherlock cocked his head to the side, pleading with Joan to let him go to his room.   
Joan shook her head and picked up his abandoned end and sighed. “Go sit in your cave, Sherlock. You’re no use to me if you’re grumpy.” Sherlock beamed and practically skipped away as Joan and Sebastian heaved their futon into its designated area.   
Sebastian straightened and gave Joan a small salute. “I’m off. I’ll be back eventually. I left some money for groceries in the cookie jar my mom packed; don’t let Sherlock use it for his science. I won’t be more than two days, but if I’m not back by then… Just wait longer.”   
Joan gave a little pout and wined, “Seb, you’re leaving so soon?” She grabbed his arm lightly and tugged at the sleeve. “What about the super roommate adventures we were going to have?” She stuck out her bottom lip and wriggled her body, hoping her new friend would stay longer.  
“I have to go, Joan. You knew I’d be leaving a lot when we got into this. You have Sherlock, though he doesn’t really seem like the most interesting company. He was silent the whole trip, by the way. I’ll be back.” He dashed out the door before she could make any more pleas, leaving Joan alone in the living room.   
She sighed and flopped onto the couch, her arms hanging low between her knees. She’d met Sebastian six months ago at a careers fair and they’d hit it off right away. He and Sherlock… well, they tolerated each other. Though their encounters usually ended up with a glaring match, both men’s chests puffed out in order to assert dominance. Joan let out a breathy laugh and lay down.   
Sherlock. He was interesting to say in the least. Tall and lanky, a genius to be sure but a little bit of a prick. Joan had known him most of her life, what with him being her next door neighbor and all. He frustrated her to no end with his deductions and examinations and the knowing smirk he wore just about every moment of the day. Most people said he was insane, Joan just said he was weird. She turned on the television and grabbed a pillow from her room. All the boxes had been properly labeled and corresponded with the lists in her ledger, so it was an easy find. Joan lay down and made herself comfortable, sliding on hand under the pillow to prop her head up a bit. Soon, she was fast asleep.   
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock crept from his hole. Finding a vulnerable Joan, he got an idea on how to prove a theory and let a wicked grin spread across his features. He ran to the kitchen, keeping as quiet as he could, and grabbed an egg and a towel. Quickly thanking his mother for sending one of her drivers with groceries, Sherlock placed the towel next to Joan’s torso, roughly above her bellybutton by his calculations, and the egg on top of that. He sat excitedly on the chair across from her sleeping form and began to wait.   
Five minutes turned into ten rather slowly with Sherlock’s eyes fixed on the egg and he was becoming impatient. Joan had always denied moving in her sleep, but Sherlock knew this proclamation to be false and he was going to prove it once and for all. Joan would roll over, squashing the egg and simultaneously waking her up to prove him right. All she had to do was move. Sherlock’s eyes burned into her body, his intense blue eyes willing something to happen. He decided to pay heed to the saying “a watched pot never boils,” and moved his attention. His gaze landed upon Joan’s face and Sherlock pushed away a blush. Joan had always looked so peaceful while she was sleeping, her thin lips opening just a little and her long lashes resting on her round cheeks. Sherlock jerked his head and focused on the show that still played, deciding to distract himself with something besides his test subject.   
Not another minute passed before Sherlock got a result, but it was perhaps not the one he wanted. Joan’s right hand twitched violently and, as it was right next to the egg, caused the subject to fly across the room and shatter right in Sherlock’s face. He yelped and sprang up, waking Joan with his noise.   
“Sherlock!” she yelled, sitting bolt upright on the couch. “Why on Earth do you have egg yolk all over your face? And the carpet too! Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?” She groaned and rubbed a hand over her face. “Can’t fall asleep ever again, can I? You’ll have to clean that up.” She looked at him inquisitively. “What caused the egg to hit you in the face, Sherlock?” Joan let a smile play on her lips and raised an eyebrow.   
Sherlock cleared his throat nervously and dabbed at the mess with a handkerchief. “Oh, just a little test with eggs and pressure. It quite literally backfired and bit my nose.” He pointed to the part that had been hit first and laughed. He hoped she’d fall for it. Joan didn’t like when he experimented on her.   
Joan crossed to her friend, carefully avoiding the mess on the floor. “Then why is there a towel right next to where I was sleeping?”   
Sherlock looked up from where he had knelt and pressed his lips together in a smile of pride. Joan Watson was becoming better at the art of deduction by the day. “I didn’t want the egg to get on the couch when you crushed it,” he admitted.   
She reached back and threw the washcloth at his face. “Clean it up. There’s cleaning supplies in the cabinet under the sink. I’ll be unpacking my things.” Joan strode towards her room and looked back before she entered. “What do you want to do for supper? One of us can cook or we can order takeout.”   
Sherlock thought for a moment, then replied, “Takeout is a good first- night- in- the- apartment food. We are college students now.” He didn’t look at her but kept cleaning up the mess. Looking at Joan seemed to create problems lately.   
“Okay,” she said shortly, a chipper tone seeping into her voice. Joan hurried away to set up her room, leaving Sherlock to clean his mess.


	2. Chapter 2

Joan munched on a cookie as she set up the living room for dinner. She’d decided that their first meal in the apartment shouldn’t be at a stuffy table, but on the floor with a thick, red scarf over the light and candles set on all available surfaces. She threw down the cushions from the chairs in a circle and a large serving tray armed with bowls, small plates, glasses and a large tea pot filled, for the moment, with milk in the center. Joan flicked on the stereo and popped in a CD of classical music because Sherlock hated everything else and couldn’t focus with the television turned on.   
The doorbell rang, inspiring Sherlock to call out, “Joan, the door is making noise.” He stayed firmly in his room, intent on not making an appearance until the intruder was gone. Sherlock didn’t like most people; they annoyed him with tedious conversation about the weather or took Joan’s attention from what he was trying to show her. This distaste led to many nights holed up in his own little world reading or surfing the net for interesting experiments.   
Joan sighed and yelled back, “I’m perfectly aware of that. It wouldn’t kill you to contribute and answer the bell every once in a while, you know.” She got up anyway, knowing that he wouldn’t be convinced to do much else at the moment. Sherlock was like that, stubborn and very much in his shell when it came to people other than her. “Thank you for coming so quickly,” Joan said as she handed the delivery man his money and quickly shut the door.   
Sherlock poked his head out of his room and smiled. “The food came.” He quickly made his way to the makeshift eating area and plopped himself down on a cushion that allowed him to see the window and all the doorways in the room. Joan smiled knowingly and fell into the place at his left, just the way he liked.   
“Eat, you stubborn thing. I finally get to make sure you have a steady diet now that you’re under my roof.” Joan set down the bag filled with food and grabbed the nearest bowl. Sherlock would skip meals for days, quite by accident, when he was focused on an experiment and Joan had always hated not being able to remind him.   
“We’ll see,” Sherlock murmured, his voice rolling deeply in his chest as he piled food into his dish. An eggroll hung absently out of the side of his mouth as he focused on shoveling mixing the ingredients in his bowl together. For all his intelligence, he was still a teenage boy and had to eat. Though he did pick the strangest flavors.   
The dinner was mainly silent as the companions ate for almost no other reason than the fact that Sherlock didn’t like to be interrupted while he did anything. The music welled pleasantly in the background the whole while, with Sherlock sometimes swaying along with the music if it was a favorite of his.   
Joan liked to watch her friend’s face while he did things and took advantage of his inattention. She liked to study human behavior, which was the very reason she had decided to go into medicine, and Sherlock was a prime example of deviating from the norm. He’d been diagnosed as a high functioning sociopath when he was ten but hadn’t let it hinder anything he did. In fact, he’d used it to his advantage, a skill he was manipulated quite well by this time. Joan looked away from his thin face and smiled with her cheeks full of noodles and vegetables.  
Later Sherlock and Joan sat on the floor and leaned against any available surface with stomachs overfull of Chinese food and the teapot of milk that had washed it down, regretting their decision not to leave leftovers for the next day. Sherlock kept his eyes closed so he could better concentrate on anything other than his pained stomach but Joan was fidgeting within ten minutes.   
She snuggled up next to him, forcing herself under his arm and asked, “Watch a movie with me, Sherlock?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide and pleading until Sherlock acknowledged her. As soon as he looked down, his head snapped back up and his eyes slammed closed.   
“Not the eyes, Joan,” he groaned, fighting the urge to take the arm that was already around her and pull her closer. “The eyes have always worked on me. It’s not fair for you to use them.”   
Joan snorted and sat up, barely noticing that the movement caused Sherlock’s arm to fall lover on her waist. “You can’t call the eyes unfair when you use your deduction thing on me all the time! And you have your own version of the pout, mister.” Sherlock looked at her steadily, his eyes searching her face. Joan fought a blush that threatened to appear because of the intensity of his gaze and her sudden realization as to where his hand was.   
“We’ll watch a movie, Joan,” Sherlock promised quietly but made no move to get up. He kept his eyes locked on Joan’s face, searching for the emotion that had been there just moments before, struggling to pull it out from the mystery that she still provided, even after all these years.   
Joan cleared her throat and stood, pushing up from her knees and walked over to the television. “What movie do you want?” She opened the little cupboard that held the T.V. up and motioned for Sherlock to take a look. “I know there are a lot of these you haven’t seen because they’re the bane of your existence so don’t try and lie to me.” Joan watched as Sherlock looked at the DVDs, not touching but looking intently.   
“This one,” he said as he pulled out a movie titled, “Isla Utopia”. Looked over the cover and nodded, approving of his choice and handed the case to Joan. Sherlock didn’t know how to work the player on the T.V. mainly because he never used it. All of his business was on his laptop or in a book and caused her to sigh.   
“You sure you can handle this?” Joan teased as she waited for the previews to finish. “It’s a scary movie you know. Wouldn’t want any sudden movement to startle you.” Joan meant it to be teasing but there was worry behind her words. Sherlock wasn't used to movies or shows because of how rarely he watched them and she didn’t want to trigger his nightmares.   
Sherlock sat splayed out on the couch and pressed his lips together, a habit he’d picked up from his mother. “Your version of ‘scary’ differs from mine. I understand the mechanics of the studios. I mostly wanted to look for errors when I chose this.” And because he knew thrillers were Joan’s favorite and for Joan, he was willing to risk a few terrors.   
Joan groaned and pressed play, thinking about where they could buy a replacement for the remote that had been lost. “Just point them out in your head, please? I like this movie.” She flopped down between Sherlock’s legs and snuggled up against his chest. “I want to stay disillusioned.”  
He adjusted so he would be more comfortable with Joan so close but kept his arms on the back of the couch and on his leg, not wanting to do anything that upset his only friend. “There are plenty not only on this couch, but in the whole of the room. Any reason you chose that spot?” he asked, one arching brow raised to put forth an air of nonchalance. Joan was not to see his feelings in case she did not return them. That was how it'd been since they were thirteen and it was how things would stay until she returned them. If she ever returned them.  
Joan laughed and brought his arms around her torso and pressed back further before answering with, “This is how you watch scary movies. All snuggled in with your friends or significant other. They’re movies to bring you closer.” She leaned her head against his chest and continued, “Now, hush. It’s starting.”   
The movie played on for almost three hours, but Joan fell asleep an hour in. Sherlock had not moved in that time, afraid of waking her. He liked how she could never stay awake when something was on, whether it was music or some sort of show even on a car ride. His favorite part was that she usually fell asleep on him.   
He supposed some people might say that she was torturing the poor man, doing the things she did and not realizing his affection towards her, but he made sure it was that way. He was afraid of losing his friend over something as trivial as a relationship if his feelings weren’t returned and had been for all those years. Joan was content to sit with him, eat with him, live with him and sleep next to him on occasion and that was enough for Sherlock Holmes.   
At the end of the movie, he picked her up very slowly and carried her to her room, slipping off her socks because he knew she couldn’t stand being in bed with them on, and tucking her in quietly. He turned off the television and DVD player to the best of his abilities and retired to his own bed to do some quick equations before bed. Theorems never ceased to slow his brain long enough for sleep.   
At what must have been very early the next morning, Joan was woken by a light rustling at her bedside. Without opening her eyes, she asked with a groggy voice, “Sherlock.” A small grunt was her only reply and she opened the covers at her back. “Get in. I told you about the nightmares.”   
Sherlock stayed silent as he had the other times he’d slept in her bed, but curled up close to her and swung a long arm over her side. He buried his face into her hair, instantly comforted by the regular strawberry scent. Joan acted as his security blanket; she was the one thing that guaranteed a good night’s sleep. The therapist had said it was because she was a familiar part of his life that didn’t consist of his family; Sherlock agreed with her theory. No matter how bad either of their family lives got— Joan’s strict upbringing and the formality that plagued each of their households— one had always been the comfort factor to the other.   
Joan let out a little puff of breath and leaned back into the embrace, enjoying the warmth he gave off. Soon, both Holmes and Watson were fast asleep again.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Sherlock woke early and breathed a sigh of relief. It had just been another nightmare; Joan was still here and okay. He reluctantly slid from beneath the blankets and over her, careful not to wake her and groggily shuffled back to his room. They’d woken together before, but with the new feelings that were cropping up and becoming stronger he felt it was better to keep a distance. Sherlock was so busy trying to navigate the still unfamiliar layout and work out a plan that he failed to notice Sebastian standing at the bedroom door just opposite of Joan’s.   
Sebastian stood there, his mouth hanging open and his right hand still holding his gas station coffee, though much more loosely than he had before. Had he just seen that? Sherlock coming out of Joan’s room, in his pajamas with his hair disheveled and the obvious signs of spending that night there. It couldn’t be possible. For the short time he’d known the bastard, Sherlock had displayed interest only in mocking people and science. He’d already overstepped his bounds with his observations and lack of filter which made it safe to say that Sebastian disliked the man strongly. It didn’t stop him from being amazed at the sight that was still burned in his vision.  
A little over an hour later, Joan wandered out of her room, her clothes loose and fitting for a Sunday. She wore an oversized, knitted sweater and yoga pants with bare feet and her long, dark blonde hair up in a ponytail. Her cheeks were rosy and bunched up with the welcoming smile she brought out. “Seb, you’re home!” She wandered over to the couch and plopped down next to him. “You look funny. What’s going on? Get drunk and get with a girl who turned out to be less pretty than you thought?”  
Seb snorted and shook his head. “Sherlock wandering out of your room in his pajamas and looking like he’d just woken up. Didn’t think he had it in him.” Sebastian didn’t look at Joan but kept trained his eyes on the floor. He kept his hands clasped together as he leaned forward to change his position and get a little more comfortable.   
Joan cocked her head to the side and said, “Had what in him? He sleeps with me sometimes when he has nightmares.” Joan pursed her lips at Sebastian’s skeptical look and huffed angrily, “Sherlock suffers from chronic night terrors and has since he was nine. When he could, he would sneak over to my house and crawl into bed with me, if he couldn’t he would call me.” Joan paused and placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Sebastian, you don’t know much about him, do you?”   
“He doesn’t really invite conversation when he locks himself in his room all day, does he?” Truth be told, Sebastian knew all he needed about Sherlock. He was a high functioning sociopath who showed a disturbing lack of empathy and emotion and liked to alienate people with sharp comments and generally avoiding them. He knew about people like his new roommate and knew not to let them too close. Sebastian sat for a few moments, thinking about the situation. He liked Joan, she was nice and smart but she wasn’t putting herself in a good position. “I won’t always be home, you know. To be here in case…” he whispered, trailing off and still refusing to look at her.   
“Yeah, I know. What’s your point?” Her eyes narrowed and she leaned back, an ill feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew what he was implying and didn’t like it one bit. “Because you think Sherlock is dangerous. He’s one of the least dangerous people I know, condition or no condition. He’d only hurt someone if they threatened someone close to him.” Joan picked her words carefully when referring to Sherlock’s emotions, just as she always had. A sociopath, high functioning or not, had a limited capacity for sentiment and Joan knew there was no way to know for sure what her oldest friend actually felt. “Sherlock is different than who you’re read about. He’s got a balance, someone he can ask if he’s unsure about a social construct.” Joan’s voice lowered but her belief in her next words were absolute, “Sherlock would never hurt me. Never. In fact, he would hurt anyone who tried to hurt me and has. His capacity to love is unknown, but I’m his anchor and people tend to hold onto those. I won’t say he’s cured because he’s not, but you should have seen him before. You can’t convince me that he’s faking how he cares for me.” She got up from the couch and stomped angrily out the door, needing to think and forgetting her shoes.   
Sherlock listened from his room, even pausing his plant experiment to hear Joan’s defense of him. She was right, of course, about his condition but she underestimated his feelings for her. Without Joan, he would drown again in his mind, he would sink to what he had been before she'd come along.   
His youth until the age of seven had been difficult. His mother was too busy with her projects to care for him and his brother used him like a toy. At five, he’d stopped talking and only ate when forced or he felt it was necessary to his health. It wasn't often. He’d isolated himself in a dark room, books his only companion as he’d learned to read at the remarkably young age of two and the occasional testing of a theory on a stuffed toy or something along those lines. His mind was filled with dark things and he retreated into his shell deeper and deeper, the doctors unable to figure out what was wrong other than the speculation that he could be a sociopath, though even that was uncertain. Then Joan came along. She was the bright spot, the light that drove away the shadows. He remembered the day he met her perfectly.  
He was in his usual position on the floor, fiddling with an action figure and trying to find out what made it work, when she burst through the doorway, a gap toothed smile wide on her face. He’d assumed she was a boy at first, with her short hair, but he amended his observation when she turned on the lights and began chattering away.   
“Hi, my name is Joan Watson and your mom said you stay up here. She said you don’t talk either, is that true?” She’d plopped down right in front of him and cocked her head to the side like a dog, waiting only a moment before she continued, “You’re my age, right? I’m seven and your mom said you were too and grown- ups don’t lie so it must be true. You have a funny room. My room has toys and colors— or it did before we moved— and yours has book and the curtains are closed.” She stood to open them and promptly came back to his side. “You’re nice. I like your hair. It’s all curly. It’s okay that you don’t talk because my mom says that I talk enough for the whole world. Do you have a brother? I saw another boy downstairs. I have one too.”   
Needless to say, his first impression was that Joan was loud and talked very fast. But she treated him like a normal kid, not someone to be avoided like the kids his mother tried to get him to associate with. That first day, Joan sat with him and babbled until her mom spirited her away. Sherlock had never felt so alone in his silence, never noticed that something was missing in his little existence before. He’d stood and gone downstairs to join his family for a meal when he was called, shocking his mother completely. He still didn’t talk until a week later.   
Joan became his only friend, defending him when the other kids at school bullied him and becoming the constant stimulation he needed. She was interesting, not matter how long she stayed with him, and exciting. But, most importantly, she treated him like he was normal, even when he told he about what the doctor’s had said. She was his constant, the one he could tell everything to without being afraid of her reaction because she would always smile and hold his hand, no matter what.   
Sherlock loved that about her, loved that she was so caring and understanding. It fit that she was going to be a doctor. He sprayed his plants with their various mixtures and sat on his bed. Joan was invaluable and had proved her loyalty time and time again. He found comfort in her arm and her voice when the nightmares had taken over and still did. He would be lost without his Watson.   
Joan didn’t come back until later, announcing to the empty common room that she’d already eaten and went into her room. She was happy she had her own little bathroom connected to her room for times like this, when her emotions were so frazzled. She could shower and get ready to sleep without worrying about talking to anyone or making a situation awkward and she did just that, falling asleep without any apprehension for her first college class the next day.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat on the cold stone ledge, carefully slicing his third orange in two. He then measured them to ensure they were exactly the same width and radius; his experiment wouldn’t work otherwise. The bag containing the rest of his fruit tipped to the side, but he deftly caught it without taking his eyes from the half he was examining first. He had figured out very quickly that he needed to bring something other than his homework to occupy him for the hour the first three weeks of the semester and found that simple experiments did the trick.  
“What are you doing?” sounded a confused voice from a few feet to his left. Sherlock didn’t look to the voice, it wasn’t a particularly important voice and it didn’t need to interrupt his findings with its questions. It persisted anyway. “Aren’t you going to eat those? It’s a terrible waste otherwise.” She sat to his right, avoiding the dripping halves that littered the makeshift bench to his left, and stuck her legs out for balance.   
Sherlock was silent, not feeling he needed to answer her. His purpose was obvious to an untedious mind. When she cleared her throat, Sherlock looked at her, exasperated. “I am doing an experiment while I wait for Watson, the details of which would be painfully clear to someone with the skill of deduction.” His voice held a careful measure of contempt for the girl, analyzing her as he had been doing to the orange not a moment sooner.  
She was transparent with the way she kept her hands bare, likely to signal that she was unattached, and the regular dying of her hair that her daddy probably paid for to lighten the natural brown peeking out ever so slightly at the roots to a bleached blonde. She was the kind of girl who put in color contacts to change her eyes to blue even though the fact that her ancestry did not carry her modified traits was written all over her cheekbones and jaw line. She wore tight, black pants that showed off her legs and buttock and a bright pink pea coat that showed off her curves and a black scarf. She wore tan, fur lined boots as well and her whole outfit was expensive, a clear sign that her family was well off but the light wear told Sherlock that her father had cut her off in the past few months as did the fact that the original color of her hair now showed. Her lack of hat and gloves signaled that her dress was for style purposes only, likely to attract a well- to- do male in hopes that she could regain her ability to spend.   
She giggled despite his insult, only proving his assumptions, and replied, “Well I’m not very good at science of whatever but I could talk about this ‘Watson’.” She twirled her hair and scooted closer, making Sherlock uncomfortable though he didn’t say anything about it.  
“Watson has a late class and we live together so I wait here so we can go home together.” Sherlock wanted to keep this interaction short so he could get back to his orange and rudeness hadn’t worked to put the girl off, so he relied on giving her the information she wanted.   
A look a disappointment washed over her face and she stopped leaning towards him. “So you and Watson live together? That’s nice.” Her bottom lip stuck out in a small pout that Sherlock failed to see as he was back to focusing on his orange.   
“Yes, along with Sebastian. Rent is not cheap and I cannot stand the thought of living in a dormitory.” A small lie on his part, but Watson had told him saying outright that he was not rich to a girl who was talking to him because she thought he was sounded rude. Not that he cared about being rude, but Joan had made a rule.   
She became more interested after that, her smile coming back but having no effect on the man who wasn’t looking at her. “So it’s like living with friends. That’s neat. Why is Watson’s class so late? Don’t most classes end at five at the latest?”   
Sherlock was getting annoyed by this girl, but he forced himself to at least keep at the level of politeness that he was keeping now when he answered shortly, “Watson is studying medicine and the classes there go an hour longer than other majors.” He just wanted to get back to his room at this point and she wasn’t helping the time go any faster.   
She nodded and twirled his hair in her fingers again. “Well, my name is Brittany. I have to get back so I can make dinner, but it was nice meeting you.” Sherlock grunted in reply and Brittany skipped away from him, much to his relief.   
About forty five minutes later, Joan strode to his side, holding her arms around her body to hold back the shivers. She smiled at the carcasses of fallen citrus’, her cheeks rosy, and said, “Come on, Sherlock, let’s get out of the cold.” She grabbed his bare hand with her gloved one and pulled him up, ignoring his complaints about his tests. “You have to be frozen by now, with only a light coat and no hat or mittens. You didn’t have to wait for me,” she scolded as she dragged him along the sidewalk. It was a cold start to autumn, but Joan loved the colors anyway. Too bad she couldn’t enjoy them with all the homework she had.   
“Joan, I wasn’t done.” Sherlock felt no need to iterate further, she’d know what he was talking about. He didn’t like being interrupted close to the finish of an experiment and she knew it, though it never stopped her before. It was the cursed blonde that had delayed him, precious moments wasted on her flirting.   
Joan made an exasperated noise and replied, “I have a lot to do tonight, Sherlock, and I can’t get it all done in a few hours like you can.” She stopped and looked up at him with her grey eyes watering from the cold. “I’m not a genius like you, so if you wanted to do an experiment you should have gone home right away.”   
Sherlock blushed at her compliment, unsure about how to respond. Joan saved praise for those she thought deserved it and those people were few and far in between. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, let’s go then. I can help you if you get stuck.” He started walking when she did, only then noticing that her hand still held his tightly. A rush of warmth filled his body, bringing on a strong blush he was glad the cold hid.   
Joan leaned against his arm, her head barely coming to his shoulder, and smiled. “I know. I always come to you for help with school because you’re useless in the kitchen. Can’t make me a sandwich but you sure can tell me about my books while I make myself one.” They laughed and kept walking along hand in hand, arriving at their destination within a few minutes.   
The night was spent with Sherlock Joan’s bedroom floor reading any book she didn’t need and her laying on the bed in various positions, both pouring over her studies. At nine, she made them both some soup and flipped on the stereo choosing, of course, Bach over a radio station. Sherlock went back to read while Joan typed out a paper, the latter falling asleep at her computer around one in the morning.   
Sherlock got up and tucked her in, removing her socks first because he knew she couldn’t stand sleeping with them on, and put her materials neatly on the desk that never seemed to get used the way it was supposed to before shuffling to his own room. He snuck back once to make sure her paper was saved before actually sitting down to record the results of his much earlier experiment. He found it increasingly difficult to focus with Joan in the room, preferring the look of intense concentration the suited her so well. The problem was why he was having such troubles with his feelings, the word was so contemptible, now. They’d been there since Joan had stumbled into his life, the need for her to balance him, for her to be there and the sense loss when she wasn’t. So why did the mere sight of her make his heart beat faster now? Sherlock went to sleep that night with the question still on his mind.   
Three weeks passed without much of an answer, but Sherlock persisted by trying out theories on the girl that kept pestering him. He began by being nicer to her, gaining her trust and affection and testing her reaction to different responses. He knew that recreating the situation was impossible, but this was his closest subject. She sat by him and flirted, always asking questions that were supposed to be a sneaky way to find out about his availability to which Sherlock usually lied. The experiment was quickly becoming less helpful and he considered abandoning it before she showed up.  
“Sherlock!” Brittany called from just down the way, waving frantically. Her hands were gloved, signaling that she’d found a potential mate. Sherlock was not yet sure if she considered him or if she’d found someone else. “Thanks for the advice for my biology class, I aced the test!” She pumped her arms and squealed.  
Sherlock muttered the appropriate response, not feeling like continuing with his observations. She was almost obviously switching to using him as a love interest to using him to get her good grades. In other words, her usefulness was waning.   
“Britt, what are you doing?” called a large man from the direction opposite of where she’d come. He was blonde and wore a sports jacket, certainly not someone Sherlock wanted to be around based on past experience. He walked up to them and smiled widely, revealing slightly yellowed teeth. “This must be your smart kid. Waiting for Watson, are you?” The big man laughed and placed a possessive hand on Brittany’s shoulder.   
Sherlock fought the urge to snort at his unspoken challenge. “I wait for Watson every day, a fact I assume has been shared with you. Your need to assert your masculinity is unneeded in this circumstance. Stand down, Kujo.” Sherlock flipped his hand at the man absently, positive now that his experiment was over with. Brittany had served her purpose and was no longer needed; therefore politeness was just another unnecessary waste of energy. He took out a small notebook from his coat pocket and scribbled a few last observations, snapping it shut and placing it back in its place before the big man could respond.   
Brittany laughed and smacked both their shoulders, causing Sherlock to look at her distastefully. “You boys are silly. Both of you are men, there’s no need to fight over it.” She obviously thought it was a jealousy match with the satisfied smirk she wore and the haughty tone her voice took on. She and her friend bantered, leaving Sherlock on the boundaries of the conversation though they did try and get him to join in.   
He was just considering leaving when he heard a familiar voice from just down the way. Sherlock’s head snapped up and towards Joan, a smile working its way to his lips.   
“Sherlock, my class let out early!” she called, waving her hand like she was going to do a jumping jack. “I see you’ve made some friends.” She grinned as she approached though she kept her pace leisurely. She kept her shoulders back, but gripped the strap of her messenger bag lightly.  
Sherlock replied in a dry voice to keep the twinge of worry out, “Hurry along then, Watson. I’m getting cold for once.” Why he felt the sudden need to hide his affection from Brittany and company confounded him, but Sherlock locked up his emotions none the less.   
“That’s Watson?” Brittany squealed, laughing loudly and holding onto the other man’s arm to keep her upright. “I thought she was a man!” They both burst into raucous laughter, holding onto each other tightly.  
Joan stood just a few feet away, a sinking feeling crawling down her chest. It became turned into tightness as the exclamations of disbelief got louder and a rushing sound filled her ears. She felt her shoulders sink in, wanting her body to get smaller until she disappeared completely. The hand on her bag tightened, her smile frozen in place and feeling fake all the while. Sherlock wouldn’t even look at her. Joan turned and ran, not wanting to hear them anymore. She’d heard enough from people like them all her life.   
Joan didn’t stop until she got to her apartment, sprinting to her room and slamming the door. She immediately crumpled into a ball in front of the door and pressed her hands to her mouth to muffle the sobs. It still affected her so much, being called a boy. They’d teased her daily for it all through elementary and middle school because of how short her hair was cut and, later on, that she was slow to develop like the other girls. It had helped when puberty had finally hit her like a ton of bricks and she'd grown her hair out, but being called ugly for so long had left marks. She rocked slowly and hugged her body to contain the distress.  
“Joan, why did you run?” Sherlock asked from the other side of the door, pressing his palms against the wood. It was times like this that he was glad Sebastian was rarely home; being someone that Joan needed right now was not his strong suit when other people were around. When there was no answer, Sherlock whispered softly, “Will you let me in, then?”  
It took only a moment before the door swung open slowly, though the doorway was empty. Sherlock crept in and peered through the darkness, still not seeing his friend. Joan was usually confrontational, someone who didn’t mind getting in other people’s face when she was angry with them so it was a good sign. At least she wasn’t mad at him. It made him worry more though, her slouch and the way she hugged her body. She looked so small standing there; even her old Prussian army coat that usually suited her so well dwarfed her.  
“Why did I even bother to grow this stupid stuff if people are still going to mistake me for a boy?” Joan asked, her voice cracking as she held a sheaf of her hair tightly. Tears glistened in her eyes and threatened to run over the edge as they had been moments before. This was not her usual anger stance, her legs were not set powerfully at shoulder width and she had not broadened her chest. She looked every bit as shrunken and defeated as she sounded, something Joan Watson should never be.   
Sherlock stepped forward quickly, intending to take her in his arms but stopping short and placing his hands on her cheeks gently. Joan had been teased mercilessly when they were younger, worse than him though he hadn’t noticed at the time. It continued to surprise him how little he’d actually seen as a child. “That girl is shallow, thinking only about her next meal ticket. She is considered beautiful on the outside, but her personality is ugly.”   
Joan sniffled quietly and ran her arm across her eyes to wipe away the moisture that still lingered on her lashes and cheeks. “At least everyone knows she’s female,” she mumbled morosely into the palm of his left hand. A stray tear leaked from her right eye and fell down her cheekbone, the water cold on Sherlock’s skin.   
Sherlock’s chest swelled in anger. How could she say that? He was looking at her now, her nose was red and lashes clumped, her cheeks flushed too brightly against her skin and her mouth twisted in agony that was only just held back. As faces went, Joan’s was usually put in the average category and she didn’t look ravishing while she cried, but she was far more than just her looks.” Joan Watson, you are by far more beautiful than any other woman that I’ve ever seen.” He forced her to look at him and continued forcefully, “You are the light that all men dream will come upon them, the smile that is always ready when one needs it most, the caretaker and the friend. You are warm and witty; you are the kind of person that inspires the most wonderful art. Your looks do not represent who you are and, if you ask me, there is nothing wrong with your face. You are remarkable, inside and out and you are never, ever to forget that again. Do you understand?”  
Joan looked up at him, her big, amber eyes still shining, but happier now. “I know you don’t like contact, but can you just hold me for a bit, Sherlock?” The raw innocence in her voice twisted at Sherlock’s heart and he pulled her into a light hug which she returned firmly. It felt good to be in his arms, she realized suddenly, tucking herself in deeper to the strength and warmth that she felt there. It made it all the harder to think about pulling away.   
They stood there for minutes in the least, neither keeping track of time. Eventually, Joan mumbled into his coat that she wanted to make some hot chocolate and watch a movie, to which he complied fully. It was one of those rare nights when they sat under the covers of Joan’s bed in their pajamas and watched movie after movie, Sherlock figuring out the plot before ten minutes were up and Joan just laughing.   
Sherlock fell asleep first, his belly full of warm cocoa, and Joan tucked him, whispering softly, “Sherlock Holmes, you have too much heart to lack feelings.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock sat brooding on his chair and stared intently at the door. He shifted again, tucking his bare feet onto the cushion with the rest of his body, slightly elevating his torso, and his knees almost touching his chest. His arms encircled his legs in his favorite lounging position, well as much as he could lounge on a metal frame padded only lightly with cushions, and waited for Joan to get home. He was still irked that she’d outwitted him, tricked him really, into agreeing to go straight home instead of waiting for her. It was ridiculous; the “blizzard” outside seemed to just be a light snowfall to him. Besides, he had trained himself not to be botherd by something as trivial as temperature.  
“Still has to walk through the snow herself,” he mumbled at his knees and going over the argument for the umpteenth time in his mind. Sherlock grumped as he tried to find where he’d gone wrong— lord he hated using wrong to describe himself— as he had the whole day. He’d even been kicked out of class “for being surly” as his professors had put it.   
The doorknob jiggled and a light thump came from the door’s direction along with an exasperated scream. “Sherlock! Did you block the lock?” Joan called as she threw her weight against the door, her voice less angry and more tired that it was intended to be. Finally, after the fifth thud, the door flew open and she had to clutch the handle to keep from falling.   
Sherlock leapt nimbly to her rescue, helping her up and answering, “I did nothing to our door. I believe Sebastian was grumbling about his key sticking a few days ago.” He took a wavering Joan by the arm and led her to the couch, where her attempt to lower herself slowly onto the cushion was only possible with Sherlock’s help,  
Joan went limp when she was sitting, failing to lean against the back of the couch and just leaned forward instead. “Stupid buildings,” she mumbled into her lap as she lightly shook her fingers through her hair to free it of snow. “Always breaking down.”  
Sherlock sat next to her, keeping his hand on her upper arm and peering at Joan quizzically. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot and the skin around them was dark and puffy. She was paler than normal even though just coming in from the cold should have made her complexion rosy and her eyes seemed not to see anything they gazed upon. “Finals?” he asked, his deductions coming together after a moment. He’d almost forgotten that other people had trouble with them and that medical finals were usually treated like they sucked the life from a person. If Joan was anything to go by, it was true.   
She groaned loudly and flopped against Sherlock, gradually crawling into his lap. “I only have one left but I’m so spent from the first three that I’m not sure I can go on.” Joan loved being close to Sherlock and took advantage of his affection for her when she could, snuggling as deep into his chest as possible. She liked the way he smelled like chemicals and deodorant and whatever poor inanimate object he was testing on. Well, she hoped he was only using the inanimate.   
Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and breathed deeply. “If I said I sympathized, would you believe me?” Joan was always quick to catch him in a lie, especially about emotions. He always said her only saving grace was her amazement at his abilities. Of course, that was a lie too but not one she'd ever caught.   
“No,” she muttered into his shirt, secretly inhaling the spicy scent he wore today and savoring the hint of mango that lingered there three days after it had exploded on him. Joan gripped the back of his shirt and pressed her nose into his chest, forgetting for a moment how impossible it would be to have more than friendship. Feeling Sherlock tense at the contact, she shot up; worried she'd gone too far. “Sorry, I know about your touching rule. Blame lack of sleep.” She looked down sheepishly, cursing her grade school crush. It wasn’t as dead and buried as she’d thought and the butterflies were coming back with a vengeance.   
“Joan, I-” Sherlock started, but stopped when Joan walked quickly to her room, likely not hearing him. He dropped his head into his hands and berated himself for ruining it. She'd been so close, hugged him so differently than normal. Or so he’d thought, but he knew that emotions were not and would never be his strong suit.  
After waiting two hours, Sherlock knocked on Joan’s door. “I thought I could help study.” He kept his voice soft and low, knowing how stressed Joan was by her body language. He worried though, that Joan was acting strangely because she noticed his feelings despite how careful he was.  
The door opened slowly to reveal a very disheveled Joan. Her hair was mussed and stuck out in different directions and her clothes were rumpled with sleeves and pant legs at different heights. Even the bottom of her shirt rode up on her belly, revealing the smooth skin there. “Actually, if you could come and read me my notes and some things out of my text books? My eyes seem to have gone fuzzy; the words keep swimming on the page.” She laughed weakly, but Sherlock could see that her energy was draining quickly.   
“How much sleep have you been getting lately?” he asked gently, unable to keep the concern from creeping into his voice. Joan looked about ready to fall over, a look he’d seen in other students but never expected from her. She was too smart to get this stressed over tests.   
Joan shrugged and swayed a little, letting herself be lead onto the bed by Sherlock. “I’ve been staying up later than usual to study for exams and can’t seem to sleep passed eight in the morning.” She was almost to the point of slurring and Sherlock made her lay back on the bed.   
Sherlock grabbed the notebook that was already open on the bed and started reading from it, pushing Joan back when she tried to get up. He read until Joan fell asleep, which took longer than he had hoped, and kept reading until he covered all she needed. When he was done, Sherlock curled up next to Joan and slept.   
Sherlock woke slowly the next morning, reaching into the empty space where Joan had been. He opened his eyes to sunlight filtering through the curtains and wondered suddenly what time it was. He sat up quickly, only to find a note on the table beside the bed. He quickly read Joan’s spidery scrawl:  
Sherlock,  
I went to my final and should be back before four. You weren’t awake and I wanted to let you sleep. Your phone pinged, so I checked it; your seminar professor cancelled class for the day, so you aren’t missing anything. He also said something about your grade not being lowered by yesterday’s events on which I expect a full report on when I get back.   
Thank you for last night. I hope your night terrors aren’t getting worse. You seem to be spending a lot of time in my bed lately.   
See you later!  
Sherlock smirked and got out of bed. He stretched lightly and stuck the note in this pocket. Joan acted like such a mother sometimes, but it failed to bother him. It was so different from how his mother treated him. Sherlock showered and dressed quickly, then settled on his chair to read a thick book on herbology before Joan got back.   
A few hours later, a howl preceded the door being flung open by an excited Joan. “Finals are finally done!” she crowed, throwing her bag onto the couch and doing a twirling dance across the room. She sang the phrase over and over until she reached Sherlock, flinging her arms around his neck and grinned from ear to ear. “Some of the other students invited me to go partying with them tonight to keep our minds off the results and I want you to come with.”   
Sherlock made a face and put down his book. He’d finished an hour ago, but read it again to obtain the information from a different perspective. “You know how I feel about people, Joan,” he hissed, putting every effort to make to word people sound like he was saying slimy garbage.   
Joan plopped sideways into his lap with her hands still around his neck, obviously in one of her giddy moods. Sherlock realized that he might not be able to get out of going out when she was this hyper. “Please?” she begged and he groaned, already seeing where this was going. “Please, please, please, please? Everyone else has someone to go with them and I think we both deserve some fun.” Joan looked up at him with the puppy eyes that she knew worked without fail and a coy smile.   
Sherlock ran a hand over his face and murmured, “You always go for the eyes.” Sherlock sighed and shifted her so the metal arm wouldn’t dig into her back. “You fail to recall that being with loud people is not my form of fun.”   
Joan smiled wider, already knowing she’d won from the resignation in his tone. “You’ll be doing me a huge favor. Plus, you could make it into an experiment.” She sat up higher and pinched his cheeks. “And you could make sure no one tries to give me alcohol or a drugged drink.”   
“Fine,” he groaned, tensing so Joan wouldn’t hurt him when she jumped up.   
“Great! I’m going to get ready and you should too. We leave at six, so that gives you almost three hours to make yourself pretty and design your parameters.” Joan skipped into her room humming her triumph and left Sherlock to wonder why he let her manipulate him so often.   
Just after three hours later, Sherlock had perched himself on the bar stool on which he would stay the whole evening, watching Joan like a hawk. She danced with her friends from her medical classes, as much as one could call what the others were doing dancing, and occasionally one of the males would approach her. Those instances set Sherlock’s jealousy ablaze, but the other women quickly dismissed him.   
It was nice to see her so happy. The past few months, her smile had been scarce from the stress exams had put on her but it was back tonight. He acted as her anchor, watching her drink and serving as a resting point when she got too tired. The other girls came over to him a few times and tried to flirt, though they were quickly put off by his cold dismissal.   
Joan staggered over, giggling uncontrollably and threw herself into his arms. “You should come dance with us,” she spluttered slowly, trying not to slur. Someone had given her alcohol, though a small amount considering her coordination and the minimal redness in the whites of her eyes. It was enough to impair her judgment slightly, or she wouldn’t have asked him to dance. He wondered how he’d missed that.  
“I don’t think you remember my rule about dancing,” he replied smoothly, smoothing back the hair that had escaped from her ponytail. “Now, who did you accept a drink from and why didn’t you come get some water if you were thirsty?” Now he was the one that sounded like a mother, but it didn’t matter. Joan’s safety was the most important thing to him, and with her judgment impaired she might do something stupid. She was sometimes too friendly for her own good.   
She frowned, thinking. “Debbie gave me some of hers, but it was only soda.” Joan tugged at the hem of her t-shirt so her stomach wasn’t showing but only served to make the top of it ride lower. Her tone was all innocence, but she'd obviously been lied to.   
Sherlock put a hand gently under her chin and made her look at him. “Did it taste differently than it would normally?” Often, the bartenders mixed soda and strong liquor so that it couldn’t be tasted and so women would buy more. The more expensive the drink, the more they wanted it to taste good. It was a dirty trick from all involved.   
“A little, but I just thought it was because it was warm,” Joan answered, fiddling with Sherlock’s scarf now. Her behavior when she was drunk mirrored almost exactly her behavior when she was hyper: fidgety, lots of energy, inattention and an enhanced sense of shame. He could see the last attribute on her face as her cheeks flushed and her eyes failed to meet his.   
Sherlock sighed quietly, trying to keep it from her. It had been five hours, so she’d lasted longer than he’d thought but now Sherlock wanted to get her home so she could rest and avoid a hangover. “Joan,” he began, though he was cut off by the four other girls coming over.  
“Joan, come back and dance! Leave this boring thing to sit,” the one she'd called Debbie yelled much too loudly even with the volume of the music. She was met by a chorus of agreement and Sherlock could see Joan wavering between listening to them or him. Debbie looked at him triumphantly and took Joan’s arm to pull her away.  
Sherlock’s rage bubbled up, instantly cooling into a controlled anger. He took firm hold of Joan and said icily, “Joan needs to go home now. Don’t try and argue with me, you gave her alcohol even when she expressly told you she didn’t want to drink, causing me to step in as her voice of reason and take her from this destructive climate.” He leveled his light blue eyes on them one by one and saw them flinch. “Now, I’m going to take Joan with me so her head won’t ache as much in the morning and she has no cause to be embarrassed when she wakes. I suggest you all do the same.” He gingerly pried Joan’s arm from Debbie’s grip and led the chastised girl to the coat room.  
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” she whimpered, nuzzling into his back as he searched for the army jacket that somehow hid despite its size. Her energy had gone now, probably from realizing how late it was after staying up so often lately but possibly because she thought he had been yelling at her.   
Sherlock draped her coat over her shoulders and gave her a small hug while leading her out the door. “It wasn’t your fault, Joan, and I’m not angry with you.” He added in his mind that he could never be angry with Joan, but kept that to himself. Just because she was drunk— well only a little tipsy, but he’d always hated the word— didn’t mean he had to spill his guts too.   
Joan leaned on him sleepily in the back of the cab, struggling to stay awake so he wouldn’t have to carry her through the snow, and as he helped her tired and slightly inebriated body up the stairs it seemed that she could have fallen asleep then and there. Her energy had obviously been the result of over- tired excitement and mania.  
When they got in the apartment, she mumbled, “Can we sleep in your bed tonight? We always sleep in mine.” She stood still when he helped her take off her coat and shoes, but kept asking the question over and over.   
“No, Joan, we have a rule about that. You have a bed, you should sleep in it.” He took off his coat and hung it up, then his scarf while trying to ignore her endless asking of the question. In the end, Sherlock wore thin and Joan crawled into his bed, falling asleep almost instantly.   
Sherlock sighed and climbed in after her with no choice but to lay right next to her; his bed was only full sized and the room for two people was scarce. As he was about to close his eyes, Joan snuggled closer and whispered, “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” She kissed him lightly in her sleep and sighed, a small smile on her lips even as he lay stiff with shock.   
“That will defiantly need to be addressed in the morning,” he answered, settling in for a long and likely sleepless night.


	6. Chapter 6

Joan’s eyes fluttered open the next morning, but snapped shut again quickly as the light seeping through the curtains sent shooting pains through her head. Her mouth felt like one giant cotton ball, but the headache fell from a pounding ache to a dull throb quickly enough. Joan turned away from the window, expecting to find the rest of her bed as she'd rolled to the edge that night but found Sherlock's body instead. Must have had a bad dream, she thought sleepily and snuggled into his chest. She froze suddenly with the realization that this wasn't her bed or her room.   
Oh no, she groaned inwardly, I thought it was just a dream. She almost bolted upright at the thought. If sleeping in Sherlock's room wasn't a dream, what else had happened while she was drunk and thought she was already asleep?   
"Morning, Joan. How are you feeling?" Sherlock grumbled from his position beside her, wrapping his arms around her body and giving her a light hug before opening his eyes and looking into hers. He looked for the signs of memory in her face and eyes, finding it quickly and deciding not to address the subject until she'd woken all the way. "Headache and dry mouth, I'd assume, though the hangover shouldn't be too terrible. I didn't let you get that drunk."  
Joan nodded slowly, unsure now if the scene playing in her head was just a dream or a hazy memory. "A dry mouth more than anything," she croaked, her tongue exploring the roof of her mouth and her teeth before she smacked her lips together lightly to demonstrate her statement. Sherlock helped her up and out of bed and into the kitchen where her poured her water and, when she'd finished the first glass, orange juice.   
"No food?" he asked, sure of the answer but providing a courtesy that Joan had taught him many years before. When she shook her head no, he sat in the chair opposite her at the table and rested his chin in his hands and directing his piercing blue gaze to her. "I think we need to talk about what happened after we got home." It was blunt, he knew, but it was better to talk about it now. You also want to know how she really feels when sober, you fool, his mind chided. He mentally shook his head to clear it and told his doubts that the talk was to clarify the relationship for both parties and wasn't selfish at all.   
Joan paled and quickly redirected her attention to the glass of juice clutched tightly in her hands. So it was real, her confession and the kiss. There would be no avoiding it now, Joan had to come clean. "Only if you want to. We can forget it if that's what you want. I'll forget for you and continue being your best friend. Only your best friend." She wished her hair was clean and brushed so she could hide behind it, so it would shadow the shame on her face. The shame she felt at slipping up and letting the man who wanted nothing to do with dating know she felt more than friendship for him.   
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, shocked by what he saw. Joan Watson, one of the most confidant people he knew when it came to romance, shy and uncertain, sitting defensively as to protect herself from rejection. "Is that what you want?" he asked quietly, calmly always calmly. "To just be friends? Because that's not what it sounded or felt like last night. What I want is no matter; it's about what you want. Though, if your feelings for me showed true, I wouldn't protest to them." He lowered his hands but never took his eyes off of his dear Watson. He loved the way her lips parted just a little when she was surprised, or the way her eyes shone brightly as she looked hopefully into his eyes.  
"I'm surprised you didn't use your deduction method to figure out that I've loved you since the moment we met," she said slowly after a moment of contemplation. "I tried to convince myself that it was just a childhood crush, which it could never be because you weren't the type to settle down." Joan sat up straight, bracing herself for anything that he might say next. Her friend was notoriously blunt and he'd never spared her the truth before.  
Sherlock took her hand gently and whispered. "Joan Watson, despite my best efforts I've fallen for you. I feel more for you than I have for anyone else and, through observation of others; I believe it to be love."  
Joan looked down at her hands, trying to make sense of what Sherlock had said. Something hard to do simply because it was Sherlock, the person who had repeatedly been told that he didn't know what emotions were, said he felt love. "Sherlock, are you-" Joan started but was cut off by her counterpart shoving his chair back and pacing the length of the small dining room and into the kitchen, then back.   
"Of course I'm not sure, Joan. You've heard the doctors and my mother and Mycroft; I'm not capable of love apparently." He whipped around to look at her, his white cotton t shirt fluttering above his pajama pants, showing just a little bit of hard stomach. "But if I can't feel love, or anything, why does my heart race when I see you? Why does my stomach feel as if butterflies are fighting a damned war in it? Why am I angry when other man looks at you like I do, when they touch you or make you laugh? Why is it that I never sleep better than when you’re by my side? Tell me what that is Joan, because I just can't be sure." His voice broke with his last words and he sat down right where he was, on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, with his hands covering his face and tucked up into a ball.   
Joan got up quietly and walked over to him. He sounded so unsure and scared, just like the child he never got to be, not really. She stroked his curly, black hair and sat down beside him. "Sherlock, I can't tell you what you feel. No one can. No doctor can look into you and know for certain your capacity for emotion or what kinds are available to you. Maybe you can feel love or affection, what you're describing I certainly have felt for you." She wrapped her arms around his slim shoulders and whispered, "But the only person who can tell Sherlock Holmes how he feels is...?" She trailed the sentence, making it a question, a guessing game that Sherlock had loved when they were little.   
"Sherlock Holmes?" He lifted his head and looked over at her, his eyes red and watery as if he'd been close to crying. Maybe he had been, but that was for him to reveal if he wanted. Sherlock leaned into her hug, burying his head in her neck and laughing. "You smell like alcohol, sweat and must," he teased, giving Joan's sides a little tweak and causing her to shriek and squirm. "Take a shower, take some time to think. I will too and we can talk when you feel ready. Okay?"  
Joan nodded and stood. "You're sure you'll be okay?" She knew, even if no one else did, how fragile he could be. When Sherlock nodded, she went to her room and showered as he'd suggested, wondering the whole while how someone like Sherlock could fall in love with someone like her; someone so dull and not even close to being on his level. It still felt like a dream, something that would devastate her when she woke. But the water was hot on her skin and when she bumped her elbow on the soap rack, it hurt.   
"Must not be a dream," she murmured into the water and rubbing the offended part, still in shock from the whole thing. Was she in a relationship with Sherlock? Would he want one? Oh, gods, would they have sex? Joan blushed from the tingling heat she felt head to toe at the thought and quickly put it out of her mind. She wasn't even certain Sherlock wanted to take it farther than telling her he loved her. So that was where she'd stop thinking until it was certain. Joan nodded to herself and started to think about school, how her friends had fared the rest of the evening, anything but her uncertain relationship with her flat mate and best friend.   
Sherlock changed into his regular clothes and paced, waiting for Joan to come back and berating himself for being so stupid. Why had he brought up the conversation when so many things were still there to be discovered about his and Joan's feelings? It was stupid to announce any findings before they were complete, so why had he? Why hadn’t he pretended it hadn’t happened until the experiment on his mind was done? He grabbed his hair and pulled, twisting and sinking to the ground for a moment. Then he got up and smoothed the mussed locks and his shirt. Everything would be fine, Joan would come out and they would decide where they wanted it to go.   
Sherlock smiled, maybe they would have a proper relationship and he could be her boyfriend and she would be his and no one else's. They would do regular relationship stuff and- oh gods he had no idea what relationship stuff meant! Sherlock sat heavily on the sofa and breathed deeply. All would be decided when Joan came out. He cracked open his horticulture book to take his mind off of the topic for the time being and waited.


	7. Chapter 7

Joan took longer in the shower than she should have and even longer drying off and situating herself. It was a stressful situation, this coming out after so long. After all the nights she’d spent wondering if, and how, it would happen. Joan honestly didn't know what to do about it— and hated herself for referring their possible relationship as it—, or if she should do anything other than let Sherlock set the parameters of what he was comfortable with. The problem was, she didn't know what she was comfortable with yet.   
Twisting her hair to the side and snapping a tie around it so the tail swung low over her left shoulder, Joan smoothed her clothes once more before walking to the door. I can't keep stalling. I have to go now, she thought as her hand shook on the knob. She took a deep breath and walked into the living room where Sherlock waited, a book in hand as usual. That relaxed her more than it might have another person, Sherlock acting like he normally did. Until he looked at her and let his pent- up emotions wash over his face to reveal all that he'd been carefully hiding for God knew how long.   
"I know you're nervous," he said before Joan could even cross the room to where he sat. "You always look immaculate when you’re the most stressed. But that's to be expected. Change is hard for people and I didn't expect you to be any different on that front. You can't surprise me in all things, Joan, no matter how you try." Sherlock set down his book, calmer and more collected than he had been while Joan lingered. He’d paced for the first twenty minutes and stared blankly at the pages of his book for the last.  
Joan slowly sat down in the big, cushy chair she'd bought recently and pulled her legs up so she could cross them. A defense posture, Sherlock observed, but less tense than she would have been were the conversation going to result in a rejection of relationship. A good sign. "I'm nervous as hell," Joan replied, trying to keep her voice steady for Sherlock's sake. He would be deducing every move she made and the last thing Joan wanted was to make him unnecessarily uneasy by giving away how badly she was shaking inside. "I keep wondering if this is some new experiment or if you're testing me or some weird thing that you might be bound to do because you are Sherlock Holmes. But then I tell myself that I'm just being silly, though it doesn't really work out so well. But that's normal, I guess."   
Sherlock started to worry about how Joan was reacting to all of this. Her nerves seemed unnatural from his prior observations, though those same observations could be moot in this circumstance— it was one he hadn't encountered in his research before— and Joan was like no other person he'd ever met. It was why he’d kept her on as a friend for so long. "I can assure you that my experimentation on this subject is over, I've found my conclusion and it's that I feel for you as I'm like never to feel about anyone again. I just need to know what you want, to compare and compromise with what I want." He was very formal, which felt like it was wrong for a conversation like this, but it was the only thing he could do. He was so inexperienced with how this "dating” thing went, no matter the amount of time he'd put into figuring out the mechanics.   
"Sherlock Holmes, willing to compromise? That's another first I'll have to write down," Joan joked, laughing a little without Sherlock joining in. "That was sarcasm," She said nervously after an awkward silence. Joan cleared her throat and continued, "But what I want is something I don't really know. I've told myself it was impossible for so long... Never let myself consider that this might actually happen that I can' tell you anything more than I want to be with you as much as you're comfortable with. I've wanted a relationship, a real one like men and women have, and they're hard."   
Sherlock nodded with her as she spoke. He understood her feelings, they were ones he'd had to work through even though Joan had held them for much longer than he had. How had he not known? It seemed like his Watson had a few tricks he hadn’t figured out yet. "I want to be you. Plain and simple. I want a relationship, a good one, one that I've seen that seems to work." Sherlock stood and started to pace across to short width of the living room. He always paced when he was thinking. "The best way to achieve that is to let each other be who we are and that's something we do quite well. We can do more of the bonding things you like to do: movies, dinners and maybe the occasional date but I like the system we have going on now, not to mention that you’re often busy with school." Sherlock spun on his heel to face Joan and asked, "If you'll just let me be good to you, I think this will work. I can be happy with my dear Watson and she can teach me even more things that I don't know about people."  
Watson watched Sherlock for what felt like hours but what she suspected was only a few minutes as he paced. This was as unsure as she’d ever seen him, and it felt very… Wrong.   
Sherlock was still muttering to himself about how their being in a relationship would work out— and for the better too! — when Joan said quietly, “Sherlock.” He kept murmuring and pacing, not hearing Joan’s quiet pleas for his attention. Finally, after ten tries, Joan grabbed him by she shoulder and said firmly, “Sherlock.”  
His head snapped down so he could look into her face, searching for any indication of her answer. Finding none that pleased him from the serious frown that rested there, he asked softy, “What?”   
Joan grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him down and pressing her lips into his. She kept it short and sweet, relishing the moment she’d been waiting so long for. “And now you can’t worry about whether my answer was serious or not,” she said smugly, loving the look of surprise and confusion that passed across Sherlock’s face.   
He slowly nodded, still bent forward, held there by Joan’s vice- like hands, and carefully rested his forehead against hers. The kiss had sent what felt like a spark through his body, down to his toes and back up again, from which he was still recovering. Instead of answering her, Sherlock did what he’d learned from a movie that Joan was fond of and had forced him to watch two weeks ago and placed his hand gently under Joan’s chin to tilt her head up and press another kiss onto her lips.   
It was slow and gentle, only lasting for a too short minute, but by the end, neither Watson nor Holmes could deny what it meant.


End file.
